


Hold your devil by his spoke (and spin him to the ground)

by JuniperJuniper



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Anal Sex, Bunker Sex, M/M, Mild Homophobic Language, Shameless Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, improper marriage proposal, trapped in a bunker, using god as an excuse to bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperJuniper/pseuds/JuniperJuniper
Summary: “We should marry,” Joseph says, like it’s a fact. Like a teacher saying the assignment is due at the end of class. Like the dentist telling Rook he should floss more. They should get married. Period.
Relationships: Male Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed
Comments: 3
Kudos: 84





	Hold your devil by his spoke (and spin him to the ground)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Laura Marling's 'Devil's Spoke.' It's a very good song

Honestly, Rook has no clue how he managed to get himself in this situation. One minute, he’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating a rationed bowl of dry cornflakes, the blandest cereal in the world crunching through his head like some shitty b-movie stock sound effect, and the next his mouth is open, unchewed cereal falling out, with an unfazed Joseph leaning back in the chair across from Rook and blinking owlishly at him.

“What?” Rook dumbly asks, not caring that cereal bits are tumbling from his mouth to form a small mound on the table.

“We should marry,” Joseph says, like it’s a fact. Like a teacher saying the assignment is due at the end of class. Like the dentist telling Rook he should floss more. They should get married. Period.

“Uh. No thanks?”

Joseph blinks at Rook like he can’t understand why Rook would reject his marriage proposal, like Joseph didn’t kidnap his friends, or terrorize an entire county, or wake Rook by wrapping his fingers around his throat, squeezing tighter and tighter, muttering something about ‘God’ and ‘persecution’ and ‘kingdom of heaven’ before Rook seized his shoulders and threw him off the bed. Even though that whole fiasco happened nearly a year ago, Rook can still feel the bite of Joseph’s fingernails in his neck, reminding him that _yeah sure the man is hot, but he’s also tried to murder you multiple times already_.

“No?” Joseph repeats, forming the word around his mouth, tasting it, white teeth gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights reminding Rook that despite Joseph’s vocal condemnation of wrath and violence, the man is still a vicious predator with one or two screws loose in the head, and it’s only a matter of time until Joseph gets sick of Rook, and tears those gleaming teeth into Rook’s neck, turning them both into martyrs. 

“Nope. I’m flattered by your offer, but my answer is no,” Rook resumes eating his cereal, ignoring the way Joseph’s face screws up, and enjoys the brief taste of victory with a hint of cornflakes.

But, his victory is short-lived as Joseph leans over the table to cup Rook’s face in his palms, eyes blue and wild without the cover of his shades, and whispers to Rook with the breathless vigor of a man who will not be so easily put off by a simple ‘no.’ _He’s pretty and oh God that’s cheating._

“God has created you for me and me for you, designed you so that you may guide me on my path, designed me so that I may cleanse your soul and lead you to salvation. Don’t you see? He has placed us in this bunker together so that we shall be united as a family and bonded for eternity. So that we may, in turn, lead the new world in God’s image.” His fingers dig into Rook’s cheeks with a maniacal intensity Rook has not seen in months and speaking with such venomous sincerity, that Rook is very much concerned for his near future. Despite this, Joseph does not protest when Rook takes hold of his thin wrists, pulling Joseph’s hands away from his face to set them on the table. Fiery vehemence gives way to unwavering resolve and Rook has the sinking feeling that, unlike Joseph's other insane God related requests, he’s not getting out of this one easily. 

“Joseph,” Rook pauses, then tries, “ _Father,_ we’re already a family. You’ve said it yourself, I am your child, and I think if we got married, that would make things pretty weird,” 

Joseph huffs like Rook is blatantly missing the point. “Spiritually you are my child, but marriage would only strengthen our bond -”

Well, no one can say Rook didn’t try.

“No,”

Rook stands from his chair, picks up the half-eaten bowl of cereal, and walks out, leaving a stunned Joseph alone. 

At first, Rook thinks that the whole topic of marriage was put to an end by a firm, albeit brief, _no_ , and that Joseph would give Rook at least a few days to relax before pestering him again, but boy was Rook wrong.   
Only a few hours tick by since the first proposal, if it can even be called that, and Joseph is cornering Rook in Dutch’s old war room, with Rook’s back pressing against the giant map of Hope County where the pictures of Joseph’s siblings used to hang, hands held out to keep Joseph back. A few weeks after the world officially ended, when each day lingered like a century and Rook was very pointedly ignoring Joseph, he stumbled upon Joseph in the war room, curled in on himself with each picture of his siblings laid out before him. Only seconds later did Rook realize that Joseph was crying, body shaking, wretched sounds clawing from his throat, and when Rook had accidentally scuffed his shoe on the bunker cement, Joseph had stared at him with wide bloodshot eyes. Neither Rook nor Joseph brought up that moment since and the pictures of Joseph’s siblings were gone from the war room the next time Rook came in. 

Bad memories aside, this has to be one of the least romantic places to propose.

The wooden border digs into Rook’s spine, leaving painful imprints and likely bruises on his skin, but better than the alternative. The alternative being willingly grinding himself against Joseph, who is now knocking Rook’s outstretched hands aside and pressing himself against Rook in a way that’s too suggestive to be considered familial. His breath is warm against Rook’s face and to Rook’s absolute horror, far from unpleasant.

“You’re trying to seduce me,” Rook says, aghast. 

“Give yourself to me,” Joseph, ignoring Rook, whispers breathlessly in his ear and there is no way that’s not sexual. “Body, mind, and spirit, you will give all of yourself to me because God wills it,”

And may the Lord strike Rook down where he stands, because there is no way lusting after the Eden’s Gate equivalent of a preacher is _not_ a sin. But Joseph isn’t coming out of this scot-free either, not by the way he slips between Rook’s thighs, obviously hard, a warm presence that has the blood beneath Rook’s skin running red hot and his fingers itching to dig into Joseph’s hips and _thrust_. But he doesn’t because Rook still has some self-control to not fuck Joseph right here and now. Instead, he lays the palms of his hands flat against Joseph’s bare chest and oh so gently pushes him away.

“Nice try, but I’m not going to marry you just because I’m horny,”

Joseph pulls a face, obviously hiding his displeasure that his plan of seduction failed. “There are other reasons to marry -”

Rook cuts him off. “Like what? For children? Last time I checked, the whole ‘populate the earth’ thing is impossible unless one of us manages to grow a uterus in the next few years, and I really don’t see that happening. Which also leads me to my next point, being, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re both men and I’ve seen enough ‘God hates fags’ to get the gist of what God thinks of me,”

Rook hasn’t felt this way in a long time, not since high school and seeing all the hateful shit teenagers come up with scrawled inside the bathroom stall with a black sharpie. Seeing _faggot_ carved into the mirrors and shaking because he’s terrified that someone will look at him and _know_ what he is and make his life a living hell for it. It never happened, but that lingering terror remains firmly planted in Rook’s chest, and being trapped in the same bunker as a religious zealot who has, more than once, tried to punish Rook for a multitude of sins, doesn't help that very real fear.

But Joseph only exhales carefully through his nose, as a steady crease grows between his eyes, brows drawing together, lips pinching tight, and Rook has the feeling that he’s going to collapse upon himself like a dying star.

Quietly, because sometimes things should be whispered, Joseph says “love is not a sin,” and it makes Rook’s heart stutter and eyes grow a little misty, even as Joseph continues. “Why should we marry? Because we have a good return for our labor: If either of us falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.” Joseph leans into Rook so that their foreheads touch, hands weakly grasping the front of the ratty t-shirt Rook found in the back of Dutch’s closet, trembling just so slightly. He smells good, Rook thinks in the treacherous corner of his mind. _Like Old Spice._ “If two lie down together, they will keep warm,” Joseph’s voice breaks. “But how can one keep warm alone?” He moves his head so that it rests against Rook’s shoulder. “You’re the only family I have left,” he whispers thickly to Rook, not accusing, just simply stating. “I cannot let you go once God has already tied our lives together. I cannot let you leave me,”

Rook doesn’t point out the fact that once their seven years are up, he can leave Joseph, marriage vows or no, but because Rook is decidedly not going to be an asshole today, he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t say anything, really. Just allows Joseph to cling to him, only raising his arms to bring Joseph closer so that their bodies are flushed in a nonsexual way, just two people enjoying the luxury of human contact. It’s been so, so long since Rook felt the press of another person. Maybe marrying Joseph wouldn’t be so bad if it means he can tuck himself against Joseph’s sharp bones and brittle exterior to feel the warmth of another living being. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Joseph pulls away. Eyes narrowed and sharp bore into Rook with all the fervor of someone who’s not sure if he’s the butt of a cruel joke. 

“Okay, I’ll marry you,”

A smile melts over Joseph’s tired face as he cups his hands behind Rook’s head, pulling him in for the most ‘pg’ kiss Rook has ever had, no tongue, no biting, simply the press of another mouth against his own.

Everything kinda falls into place after that. 

Vows are shared, hands placed upon Joseph’s holy book, soft kisses exchanged, clothes more yellow than white, found in the back of a closet, worn as they stand in front of each other, last two people on earth, pledging their love before God. It feels like something straight out of a Hallmark movie, as explicit as a middle school homecoming dance, until Rook is pulled against Joseph so that their lips meet in a biting kiss, and Rook comes to the realization that he’s making out with an insane cult leader who, marriage vows or no, may or may not kill him at some point in the future, and if the glare Rook receives after mentioning _hey, I’m not sure if God approves of so much tongue being shoved down my throat at the altar,_ his time might come sooner rather than later. 

And Rook finds himself face to face with a flushed Joseph Seed, who's looking at him with an expression Rook can’t quite place, but makes him feel _something_ _._

And Rook can’t wait any longer.

“Okay, so maybe I did marry you because I’m horny,” Joseph nods slowly in understanding. “Now we can fuck, right?”

At that moment, Joseph’s face does several things all at once, including scrunching up like he just ate a lemon and turning beet red, which is pretty cute in a weird way.

“Yes. It - it wouldn’t displease God if we had intercourse, after all, it is a husband’s duty to give his spouse their conjugal rights,”

That’s honestly the least sexy way to say _yes, we can fuck._

“Okay,” Rook says. “But you have to want it, too,” he adds, because it’s important that Joseph knows that. Important that Joseph wants it too, not just because Joseph feels it’s his duty to fulfill Rook’s sexual needs. Marriage is all about compromise, and if Joseph is willing to bend some of his beliefs for Rook, it’s only fair that Rook does the same. If Joseph doesn't want anything sexual to do with Rook, he’s not going to force him.

But, that doesn’t seem to be the case. 

Against Rook’s once-white-now-yellow button-up shirt, where Joseph’s hands are pressed against his chest, is a faint tremble, so soft that Rook didn’t notice it at first. He searches Joseph’s face, finding blue eyes darkened with a primal desire that Rook has only seen in the bedroom and a smile so serene Rook wonders if somehow Joseph managed to sneak bliss into the bunker.

“I desire you, Rook,” he whispers into the dusty bunker air. “I desire whatever you wish to do to me,”

Rook looks around the small room Joseph uses for worship - _and marriages_ , Rook thinks - finding a ratty couch that Joseph must have pulled in here when the world first ended and Rook was refusing to speak to or even look at Joseph. Rook remembers how lonely that first month was, how he locked himself in the only bedroom and refused to come out, how Joseph left plates of food by the door at each mealtime, and wonders how Joseph fared through that trying time. Probably spoke to God or something. 

Rook looks at that couch that Joseph probably ate, slept, and worshiped God on, thinks for half a second, guides Joseph until the back of his knees touch the couch before shoving him by the shoulders. Joseph tumbles on the couch with an indignant squawk, Rook joining him a second later, knees caging Joseph in, mouth at his neck.

Rook bites and sucks at Joseph's throat, pressing him deeper into the ratty couch, driven by the insanity of not touching another human in months, of not seeing another human besides Joseph, of not having a normal conversation that doesn't include God, sin, or the end of the human race. Just the mere smell of Joseph leaves him trembling against the man, rutting against his thighs, desperate for human contact. Engulfed in a lust soaked frenzy.

If placing his hands on another person leaves Rook aching and hard in his jeans, he has no idea how the notoriously celibate Joseph is faring, but judging by the growing hardness against Rook's thigh, not very well. 

Rook scoffs against Joseph’s neck. “I guess you are human, after all,” he says, too loud in the quiet bunker. 

Beneath Rook, Joseph is still, almost lifeless and, if not for the occasional sigh or the involuntary jerk of his hips, Rook would think the man dead.

“Hey,” Rook runs a hand down Joseph’s bare chest, because even after the world has ended Joseph can’t be bothered to wear a shirt longer than he has to, not that Rook minds, of course. Gives him easy access to the map of scars and tattoos on Joseph’s chest, grotesquely beautiful and so human beneath his fingertips. Even now, Rook takes a second to run his fingers over the ink on Joseph’s chest, following the black lines across his sternum, down his ribcage, then back up to his collarbone. And because Rook’s feeling a little feisty, he makes sure to drag a nail cruelly over Joseph’s pink nipple, earning a hiss.

Finally, Joseph opens his eyes. Blue and soft and defenseless without his signature glasses, darkened by all-too-human arousal.

“I am only a man. I have never claimed not to be so,”

Nodding, Rook can’t help but agree.

“Yeah, you definitely have those pesky human needs,” he presses his knee between Joseph’s legs and muffles the sighs with his lips. “Too bad you have to get married every time you need to get your rocks off.”

He huffs but, once again, Joseph is pliant and moldable under Rook's fingers, as he presses and shapes Joseph into the man Rook needs, the man God said Rook needs. Bound by marriage, by circumstance, by fate, Rook doesn’t know and doesn’t care. Let Joseph call it whatever he wants, Rook can iron out the details later, but now, all he wants is this, _is Joseph_. 

Imprints from Rook's teeth bruise purple against the pale flesh of Joseph's neck. Rook pulls away to examine his work, to admire the blooming bouquet of bruises and bites and scratches that stain every inch of Joseph's body, from his neck, to wrists, to thighs, to feet, marking him. Branding Joseph as Rook’s, forever. And as Rook ghosts his thumb over the outline of Joseph through his very revealing pants, watching Joseph's hips jerk at even the slightest of contact, Rook’s chest swells with a fucked up sort of pride at the sight of his once enemy, now husband trembling with only the slightest of touches.

Rook hums, more to himself than Joseph, and thumbs the waistband of the Father's sweatpants, fingers dipping low to trace the deep scars that cut through the man's skin, thin scars that run like streams across his body, long scars that resemble deep winding gorges carved by hatred, sins etched into his soul, bared for the world to see but for only God to judge, runs his fingers over the tattoo of a woman engulfed in flowers, beautiful and immortalized on Joseph’s flesh. Joseph sighs and trembles as Rook caress the woman's ink face, pressing against the waterfall of her hair, tracing the flowers that burst from her body. Joseph's blue eyes are open and seeing, long brown hair spread across the pillow like a halo, giving the man a soft glow under the fluorescent bunker lights, and despite his sharp edges and zealous tendencies, Joseph curls his mouth into a soft smile, just for Rook. Just for Rook. It doesn’t make Rook’s breath stutter and it definitely doesn’t make his heart all gooey inside. _It doesn’t._

Rook pretends he doesn’t feel like crying as he runs his hands through Joseph’s soft hair, at the fact that Joseph lets him, that Joseph lets Rook do whatever he wants. Pretends that after these seven years are over, and they can finally leave this God awful bunker, that he’ll leave Joseph forever, abandon the last person on earth and shift through the ruins of this dead world. Pretends that there is no way he’ll stay with Joseph, vows or no. No way.

Hips twitching for something more, Joseph presses himself against Rook's thigh, meeting Rook's gaze with an unwavering stare, gentle smile still in place. 

“You belong to me now,” he whispers to Rook. “God has made it so,”

_Maybe_ , Rook thinks as he dips his thumbs into the valley of Joseph's hips, where _lust_ is etched into the skin with jagged strokes, or _maybe God doesn’t really care at all._

Lust coils in the pit of Rook's stomach, like a snake ready to strike, writhing inside of him as he peels Joseph’s pants from his protruding hip bones - if they didn't have to ration their remaining food, Rook would definitely encourage Joseph to eat more - watching Joseph's cock spring free from its confines. Didn't even bother to wear boxers to the wedding. What a harlot. 

Rook tells him so, earning only a slow, serene blink of blue eyes. Otherwise, Joseph remains perfectly still, content to let Rook do all the work, with his arms spread open as if preaching and eyes fluttering beneath the lids. Soft sighs and hushed prayers slip past Joseph's lips, the only sign that Rook is doing something right. With a firm hand around his waist, Rook maneuvers Joseph to his stomach and presses his chest into the couch, mindful of Joseph’s potentially stiff limbs.

“Hanging in there, old man?”

That earns a soft chuckle, barely a push of air, but a laugh nonetheless. “I’m sure I can keep up, Rook,” Joseph says, turning his head to watch as Rook snatches a bottle of lube - one that Rook teased Joseph relentlessly for - and pours it into his palm. 

Rook pauses for a moment. “Is this okay?” 

“Your desires are my desires,”

It’s not a real answer, but it’s one Rook is content with.

Rook slips a finger inside Joseph, nice and easy, pulling stuttered breaths and choked sighs from the man, until Joseph is trembling against the couch, dripping onto the scratchy blankets, ribs expanding with each shallow breath. Rook adds another. For a man with such strong convictions against sexual pleasure, Joseph pushes back on Rook’s fingers like he’s starving. One of Rook’s knees digs into the scratchy cushions of the couch, giving him the right angle to lean over Joseph and thrust his finger’s _just so,_ drawing a choked sob from his throat.

“Whore,” Rook laughs into Joseph’s neck. Beneath him, Joseph hisses and slaps weakly at Rook’s thigh, fingers becoming claws as Rook’s calloused fingertips drag across Joseph’s prostate, tracing along the silken insides of his body, before slowly easing out. Joseph’s hand remains glued to Rook’s thigh, even as Rook pulls back to pour lube on his cock, slicking up the length more than he really needs to, before draping himself over Joseph’s back. Aligning himself with Joseph’s entrance, Rook pushes inside with no resistance, moaning at the velvet heat engulfing his cock, shivering as he is drawn in until his hip bones press against Joseph’s backside, and snaking a hand between Joseph’s thighs to catch the excess slick dripping down his legs. He ignores Joseph’s cock because Rook’s an asshole. Instead, thrusting into Joseph, slowly at first because even though he says he can keep up, Joseph is still a good fifteen years older than Rook and death by dick sounds good in theory but not in practice. 

Each thrust of his hips pushes Rook deeper inside Joseph, flattening him into the couch cushions, drawing muffled sighs from his throat, watching him drip onto the polyester, feeling his fingers claw at his thigh like it’s the only thing keeping Joseph grounded and not floating off into heaven. Only then does Rook follow the path of scars and ink down to Joseph's cock, to curl his fingers around the dripping length and bring him to completion. 

And for this horrible moment, Rook feels sick with himself, as he thrusts into the man who kidnapped his friends, who tortured him, who locked him in this stupid bunker and thrust vows of marriage upon Rook because _God said so._ Sick, because despite everything, all the evil acts Rook committed in the name of survival, all the people he's killed, all the innocent lives engulfed in a wall of flames and burned to ash in a matter of minutes, despite _everything_ , Rook would do it all again if it meant he could have Joseph Seed gasping beneath him, bound to him by vows made under the eyes of God, _belongs to me_. Rook comes inside Joseph with this possessive thought burning in his mind, how Joseph belongs to Rook. How Rook belongs to Joseph. How they only have each other, the last two people on this earth. Seconds later, Joseph spills across Rook’s fingers with a broken moan, remaining motionless beneath Rook’s weight.

It’s only until Joseph maneuvers himself beneath Rook so his back presses against the armrest, chest to chest, thumbs swiping below his eyelids, does Rook realize he’s crying, actually crying. Cum stains Joseph's stomach and God, Rook feels like a piece of shit for not offering to clean him up before having an emotional breakdown, but Joseph doesn't seem to mind, pulling Rook to his scared, naked chest, tucking his chin over Rook’s head.

“You’re mine.” 

Rook cries. Joseph sings.


End file.
